


not something like the sun

by owlinaminor



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Confessions, Genderfluid Kozume Kenma, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9096205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: “But everyone knows Shakespeare,” Tetsurou protests.Kenma turns, ever so slightly, to focus one golden cat-eye on their friend.  They stare, unblinking, for precisely six seconds, then turn back to their computer.“Okay, so maybe not everyone knows Shakespeare,” Tetsurou concedes.  “But it’s the sentiment that counts.  It’s literally the perfect poem for the situation.  It’s all about how the narrator sees past his love’s outer flaws to her inner beauty, and –”“Kuroo,” Kenma says.  “Does Yaku even know English?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NatRoze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatRoze/gifts).



> happy birthday to nat, DESTROYER OF WORLDS. i tried to combine three of your favorite things: rarepairs, shenanigans, and shakespeare. i hope you enjoy the result. ❤
> 
> thanks goes to [becky](https://twitter.com/dickaeopolis) for betaing, and [amber](https://twitter.com/ambyguity_/) and [patrick](https://twitter.com/bear_socialist) for looking it over.

Kuroo Tetsurou has a problem.

The problem is 160cm tall, has spiky brown hair, and receives as though it’s what he was born to do.  The problem is constantly yelling, constantly fighting, constantly working to improve his skills.  The problem has wide brown eyes constantly sparkling with mischief and a grin that makes Tetsurou want to punch him in the face.

The problem is one of the other first-years on Nekoma’s boys’ volleyball team.  He’s a pain in Tetsurou’s ass, and Tetsurou doesn’t know what to do about him.

Tetsurou watches Yaku now, practicing receives on the other side of the court.  He’s intently focused, crouched down like a cat waiting to strike.  Tetsurou remembers what he’d said the previous day, when Nekomata asked what their goals for the next year were.

_To dominate at Nationals._

Tetsurou had told Kenma about it – about the sound of their voices joining in surprised harmony, about the spark he felt when their eyes met.

“And you hate this guy,” Kenma said, their voice as steady as their hands on their video game controller, eyes glued to their TV screen.

“Yeah?” Tetsurou replied.  “He’s annoying.  I can’t stand him.”

“If you say so.”

Tetsurou protested – coughed, spluttered, listed off Yaku’s most miserable qualities like an old man complaining about slow retail service.  But Kenma only shrugged, thoroughly unconvinced.  And when Kenma is unconvinced, Tetsurou…

Tetsurou watches Yaku now, practicing receives on the other side of the court.  He’s intently focused – but then he stands for a moment, relieving the pressure to his knees and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.  His face turns, following the noise of a few second- and third-years shouting as they play a three-on-three –

And his eyes meet Tetsurou’s.  They narrow, then widen, as his mouth spreads into a smirk.

_It’s gonna be our turn for the three-on-three soon, and I’m gonna kick your ass._

The words ring out in Tetsurou’s head, as clear as though Yaku had shouted across the gym.  Tetsurou’s heart, beating double-time throughout practice, slows, then leaps –

Tetsurou sighs and sinks back against the wall, until he’s sitting on the floor, head curled against his knees.  Kenma was right, and he is _so fucked._

* * *

The thing is, Tetsurou has never had a crush before.

Well, that’s not true – he’s been infatuated, with boys in his middle school class, girls he saw on the train, actors in movies.  He’s wondered what it would be like to kiss the nice lady who works at the café near his mom’s office, and has looked up photos of people in compromising positions to stare at while he explores the strange sensations developing below his waist.  He even went through a period of daydreaming about Kenma in a decidedly non-platonic way.

So, maybe he’s had feelings for people before, but never quite like this.  Yaku just won’t get out of Tetsurou’s head, whether he’s practicing or eating lunch or sitting in class, failing to pay attention to Nozaki-sensei’s lecture on whichever work of English literature they’re going over today.  He can’t stop seeing Yaku’s smirk, hearing his grating laugh, wondering if his light brown hair feels as spiky as it looks.

It’s fucking annoying, honestly, because Tetsurou _loves_ this class, but instead of paying attention and taking good notes, he’s filling his notebooks with doodles of cats, each smirking dangerously as though they’re about to trap a mouse.

“Kuroo.”

Tetsurou looks up – to find Nozaki-sensei standing directly in front of his desk, dark eyebrows raised.   _Shit._

“Yes, Sensei?” Tetsurou asks.  He shifts his arm to hide his notebook.

“Care to tell me why you don’t have your textbook open?” the teacher says.  “Is something more interesting than Shakespeare?”

“No – not at all, Sensei,” Tetsurou replies, shaking his head adamantly.  “Nothing is more interesting than Shakespeare.”

Nozaki-sensei smiles, her eyebrows returning to their usual state.  “If you think so highly of the Bard, why don’t you read the poem we’re discussing out loud?  Sonnet 130, page 204.”

Tetsurou opens his literature textbook and flips to page 204, then stands at his desk and reads.  Many of the words are older English, unfamiliar to Tetsurou, but by reading slowly and carefully, he’s able to sound through the poem.

> _My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;_  
>  _Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;_  
>  _If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_  
>  _If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head._  
>  _I have seen roses damasked, red and white,_  
>  _But no such roses see I in her cheeks;_  
>  _And in some perfumes is there more delight_  
>  _Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._  
>  _I love to hear her speak, yet well I know_  
>  _That music hath a far more pleasing sound;_  
>  _I grant I never saw a goddess go;_  
>  _My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.  
>  _ _And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
>  _ _As any she belied with false compare._

“Very good, Kuroo,” Nozaki-sensei tells him once he’s finished.  “Now, what do you think is the subject of this sonnet?”

“Well, it’s romantic,” Tetsurou says.  “In the last line, the narrator is saying that his love for his mistress is great.  But that last part is really surprising, because for the whole rest of the poem, he’s basically insulting her – saying she’s nothing like the sun, and her voice isn’t musical, and stuff.”

“Very true.”  Nozaki-sensei turns away from Tetsurou and returns to the front of the classroom, high-heeled boots clicking on the linoleum.  Tetsurou takes that as his cue to sit down.

“This sonnet is a famous example of what are called Shakespeare’s ‘dark lady sonnets,’” the teacher goes on.  “He wrote them to a mysterious dark figure, with whom he apparently had a complex relationship.  But the remarkable aspect of these sonnets is how they subvert traditional aesthetic tenets of the form.  Such poems are usually directly romantic, complementing the outward beauty of the women they describe, yet Shakespeare here diminishes the significance of this outward beauty by proclaiming that he loves his mistress despite her many flaws…”

 _He loves his mistress despite her many flaws,_ Tetsurou writes in his notes.  And then pauses, rereads the line, and copies it down again.  Something about the sentiment seems oddly familiar.

Yaku appears in his mind’s eye.  Annoying Yaku.  Competitive Yaku.  Can’t-take-a-joke Yaku.  Terrible-at-letting-things-go Yaku.  Explodes-at-anyone-who-dares-to-comment-on-his-height Yaku.  If Tetsurou were to start listing the guy’s outward flaws, he’d soon run out of notebook pages to write them on.

But then, the Yaku in Tetsurou’s mind smiles, as though he just laughed at something stupid one of their teammates did, and Tetsurou feels his heart stutter – _ba-bum_ , like the rhythm of Shakespeare’s poetry.

_Like the rhythm of Shakespeare’s poetry._

And just like that, a plan begins to take shape.

* * *

"You're going to _what,”_ Kenma says.

They’re focusing on their laptop screen, intent on a game of Civilization V – but Tetsurou can hear the concern buried beneath several layers of apathy in their voice.

“I’m going to copy out Shakespeare’s sonnet 130, add a note saying to meet me in the second-floor hallway after afternoon practice, and slip it into Yaku’s locker,” Tetsurou repeats.  “What?” he adds, nudging Kenma’s leg.  (Kenma moves to angle their legs out of Tetsurou’s reach, in response.)  “Do you not think it’s a good idea?”

“It’s a terrible idea,” Kenma replies.  “He’s not going to know what it is.”

“But _everyone_ knows Shakespeare,” Tetsurou protests.

Kenma turns, ever so slightly, to focus one golden cat-eye on their friend.  They stare, unblinking, for precisely six seconds, then turn back to their computer.

“Okay, so maybe not _everyone_ knows Shakespeare,” Tetsurou concedes.  “But it’s the sentiment that counts.  It’s literally the perfect poem for the situation.  It’s all about how the narrator sees past his love’s outer flaws to her inner beauty, and –”

“Kuroo,” Kenma says.  “Does Yaku even know English?”

“Of course he knows English!” Tetsurou exclaims.  “Everyone at Nekoma has to take English!”

Kenma sighs – a sound that means they’ve resigned themselves to something in the world being inherently wrong.  Tetsurou usually hears it when the train they’re riding is delayed, or when the internet abruptly stops working, or when they’re forced to interact with family members during the holidays.  And usually, he’s prepared to cheer Kenma up with bad jokes or weird stories or facts about the solar system.

But today, Tetsurou just jumps off the bed in search of a clean sheet of paper and a nice calligraphy pen.

“Shakespeare is universal,” he tells Kenma.

Kenma ignores him.

* * *

There is a note in Yaku Morisuke’s locker.

It takes him a minute to notice that it’s anything special – at first, he mistakes it for one of the many old homework papers he threw into the locker.  But soon, he realizes that this paper has no rips, no scribbled curse words, no doodles of weird plants.  It is, in fact, folded precisely into quarters.  And the paper isn’t quite white, Morisuke realizes upon further inspection – it’s off-white, slightly tan, and thicker than printer paper.

Morisuke glances around the locker room.  It’s empty, just benches and dingy blue lockers – he usually gets to morning practice before most of his teammates, so that he can work on receives by himself for a while.  He stands still and listens carefully, but hears only a bird calling outside.

Okay.  Definitely weird.  But maybe the paper slipped down into his locker from the one above it, or something.  Morisuke figures he’ll have no way of knowing unless he actually opens the thing.

He unfolds the note carefully.  It reads, _To Yaku,_ followed by a large block of text in English, followed by, in Japanese again, _Meet me in the second floor hallway after afternoon practice today,_ followed by a small doodle of a cat.

This has to be some kind of joke.

Morisuke turns the note one way, then another, trying to make sense of the words.  It says, _To Yaku,_ so it has to be meant for him – but why write the whole message in English?  Morisuke is barely passing beginner’s English.  He recognizes three words in the whole passage, and two of them are _the._  So maybe this is a prank to reveal how shitty he is at English… but that wouldn’t make sense, because other people on the team are even worse than he is.  Is it a riddle, maybe?  A puzzle?  Fuck, Morisuke hates riddles, it’s a waste of time to have to figure out what someone could just _tell_ him…

Morisuke is considering slamming the note against his locker to see if that accomplishes anything when he hears voices – a couple of his senpai, arriving for practice.  He instead settles for crumpling up the note and shoving it in his bag, then finishes getting changed.

He tries not to think about it, during practice – tries to just focus on his form, his muscles, the trajectory of the ball – but it keeps slipping in.  The words dance around his mind like characters in a kids’ animation, circling back and forth until he just wants to kick them out.  He hears _to Yaku_ when he’s receiving, _meet me in the second-floor hallway_ when he’s spiking, _after afternoon practice_ when he’s passing.  He’s thrown off enough that even Nekomata-sensei notices, and he hates it.

The only thing that pulls Morisuke away from wondering about the note is making fun of Kuroo – maybe he didn’t get enough sleep or something, because he misses even more balls than Morisuke.

* * *

“And it was just… in your locker?”

Morisuke nods, then tilts his head up, trying to get a better look at Mikoshiba’s expression as he reads the note.  (Morisuke likes his height, really, or at least likes that it makes him an obvious choice for libero once the third-years graduate, but it’s annoying as hell to be shorter than literally everyone else on the team.)

“And you have no idea who it’s from or what it says, huh?” Mikoshiba asks.

Morisuke nods again.

Mikoshiba scratches his head, messing up his short, dark hair.  He peers at the note, squinting at the messy English handwriting.  Morisuke holds his breath.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he finally says.  “I can’t really understand it, either.”

Only the knowledge that Mikoshiba’s two years older and could get Morisuke’s gym keys taken away keeps him from slamming the guy’s head into a locker.

“So what _do_ you understand, then?” he asks through clenched teeth, instead.

“Well, it’s kind-of insulting,” Mikoshiba says.  “The first line says that someone is _not something like the sun_ – that’s not nice.  And this person’s hair is compared to wires, I think – also not nice.  And it rhymes – alternate lines rhyme, and then the last two lines rhyme.  I think it’s a poem.”

“An English poem that’s kind-of insulting,” Morisuke says.

“Yeah.”  Mikoshiba grabs a pen and blank sheet of paper from his bag, scribbles down some kanji, then hands it to Morisuke.  “Here’s all the parts of it I understood.  I’d try to help you more, but… I’ve gotta get to class.  Sorry, kid.”

 _Kid,_ Morisuke mouths.  He clenches one fist, slowly unclenches it, then grabs his stuff – he’s running late, too.

* * *

In class, the note somehow becomes even more of a mystery than before.

Morisuke borrows his teacher’s Japanese-English dictionary, and with that, as well as some stealthy use of Google Translate between classes, he’s able to come up with a full (albeit terrible) translation of the poem.  He then puzzles over it for what feels like hours, writing ideas for what the fuck it could possibly _mean_ in the margins.

So far, all he can figure out is that someone – probably someone on the team, because who else would be able to get into their locker room – really doesn’t like him.  And as much as Morisuke hates caring what other people think of him, that… that hurts.  All he’s done since he came to Nekoma is work hard to improve his skills so that he can help his team dominate Nationals one day.  And maybe he’s a little aggressive, or a little abrasive, but he hasn’t done anything to deserve hate mail.

Or has he?

Morisuke is trying to convince himself that wanting to yell at everyone in his life doesn’t make him a bad person when Kai finds him.

“Yaku?  Hey, Yaku.  It’s time for lunch.”

Morisuke keeps his head down on his desk.  It’s comfortable, with his face nestled in his arms like this.  It’s dark.  Quiet.  Maybe he could take a nap here.

“I’m not hungry,” he tells Kai.  “Someone hates me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kai replies.  “Nobody hates you.”

“Someone does – they set me a weird English poem-note.”

“And a weird English poem-note means they hate you?” Kai asks.  He pokes Morisuke’s head.

“I think so,” Morisuke says.

“Let me see it, then.”

Without lifting his head, Morisuke pushes the sheet of paper with his translation across the desk to Kai, who reads it out loud.

> _My mistress's eyes are not something like the sun._  
>  _Corals are much redder on the lips than red._  
>  _Why does snow become white and her breasts chaotic?_  
>  _If the hair is a wire, a black line will stretch over her head._  
>  _I saw red and white Damascus, but such a rose can not be seen on her cheeks._  
>  _And in some perfumes, my breath has more pleasure from the smell of my lover._  
>  _I love listening to her story, but I think music is much more fun._  
>  _I have never seen the goddess go._  
>  _My girlfriend when she walks on her feet._  
>  _Still, I think I am a lover of heaven._

“See what I mean?” Morisuke says.  “They hate me.”

“I don’t know,” Kai tells him.  “This last line, about being in heaven – that seems pretty nice.  And a lot of it seems like the writer is bragging about their girlfriend, or ‘mistress’, or whatever.  It’s like… posturing.  I think that’s the right word.”

Morisuke picks his head up – the outside world is brighter than he remembers.  “Then why would that be in a note to me?  Whoever it is wants me to meet them in the upstairs hallway, today after practice.”

“Well...”  Kai thinks about it, then shrugs.  “Maybe they want to fight.”

 _“Fight?!”_  Morisuke jumps to his feet, as though his adversary (whoever the hell it is) is watching him right now, and will be intimidated by his ready stance and jabs at the air.

“I guess,” Kai says.  “It’s the only thing I can think of that makes sense.”

“It makes _so much_ sense!” Morisuke exclaims.  “That’s why they wrote in English – they thought they could throw me off.  But _nothing_ throws me off.  I’m gonna kick whoever this is’s ass.  I’m gonna kick it _so hard.”_

“Yeah, you are,” Kai agrees.  “Can we go get lunch now?  I’m starving.”

* * *

The second floor hallway is beautiful in the late afternoon.

It’s got these huge glass windows lining the walls, inviting the sunset into the building in all its reds and oranges and golds, as though someone spilled fire across the sky.  The silhouettes of nearby buildings form a charcoal foreground of black and gray, and the skyscrapers rising in the distance line a shadowy background.  Soon, the colors will fade completely and the lights in the buildings will switch on, twinkling like fallen stars.

It’s not what Morisuke would have chosen as his ideal fight location, to be honest.  He could see it as the setting for a confession scene in a cliché shoujou manga, maybe.  But a fight?  The whole sunset backdrop is way too distracting.

Morisuke’s determined not to let himself be distracted, though.  He gets into a ready stance, punches the air a few times, sings his favorite song in his head.  He’s ready, he tells himself.  He can do this.

He hears footsteps from the nearby stairwell – and then a mop of messy black hair appears, followed by a nervous expression, followed by a tall, lanky body.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

Well.  Not exactly who Morisuke was expecting to fight, but he gets it – he and Kuroo have been arguing pretty much nonstop since the beginning of the year.  And he can take Kuroo.  The guy’s all bone and no muscle.  He can _definitely_ take Kuroo.

“Yaku,” Kuroo says.

He stops a few steps away from Morisuke, hands in his pockets, gaze locked onto his shoes.

“Kuroo,” Morisuke replies.  He bends his knees, flexes his fingers to form fists.

“I see you, um, got my note,” Kuroo continues.

Morisuke grins, and drops even lower.  He’s ready, he’s so _ready_ , he just needs an invitation to throw the first punch.

But Kuroo, apparently, isn’t done talking.

“I wanted to talk to you because,” Kuroo says.  He pauses, clears his throat, then goes on, “Well, I was hoping the note gave you some idea.  But, um.  I think you’re annoying, and you never know when to let things go, and you always get mad when there’s nothing to be mad over, but – shit, this isn’t going how I wanted it to.”

Kuroo’s face looks reddish – but Morisuke is sure it’s just because of the sunset.  He’s not sure why Kuroo is talking so much, anyway.  He just wants to get to the fighting – it feels as though he’s been waiting to punch Kuroo in his stupid face all year.

“I think you’re annoying,” Kuroo repeats, “but I also think you’re… You’re really determined.  You work hard to make up for your height, and you’ve already gotten so much better.  You’re giving everything for the team.  So, the point is… The point is, I think you’re pretty cool, actually, and I… I like you.  In a romantic kinda way.”

_SLAM!_

Kuroo is flat on his back before Morisuke realizes that what he said was not, in fact, “FIGHT ME RIGHT HERE AND NOW.”

“Wait, you _like_ me?” Morisuke demands, leaning over so that he can meet the other boy’s eyes.

 _“Yes.”_  Kuroo lifts his arm and brings his hand to his nose.  “What the hell was _that_ for?”

“I thought you wanted to _fight!”_

“What, and take down the reserve libero two days before we have a huge practice match?  Are you _insane?”_

Morisuke starts to say that he _definitely_ would’ve beaten Kuroo, not the other way around, but the words die in his throat when he looks down at the other boy.  He’s never had a vantage point quite like this, not at Kuroo – usually his eyes are about level with the guy’s chin – and he finds himself examining Kuroo carefully.  A sharp face, ridiculously messy hair, mouth that looks best in a self-satisfied smirk.  Hazel eyes – hazel eyes that meet Morisuke’s, sending strange sparks down his spine.

 _You’re really determined,_ Kuroo said.   _You’re giving everything for the team._  As though Kuroo hasn’t stayed late after just as many practices as Morisuke has, as though Kuroo hasn’t helped the team connect more in the past few months than Morisuke could in three whole years.

 _I like you,_ Kuroo said.  It’s not what Morisuke was expecting to hear, when he got that note in his locker this morning, but… it’s not the worst thing he’s ever heard, either.

“Come on,” he tells Kuroo, sticking out his hand.  “Kai hasn’t gone home yet, and I bet he has an icepack.”

Kuroo takes the hand, and Morisuke pulls him to his feet.  They head for the stairs, Kuroo’s long strides matching Morisuke’s shorter ones.  “Why would Kai have an icepack?”

“Because he thought I was going to fight whoever left the note in my locker.”

“Yeah, wait – can we talk about that?  Why did you think we were going to fight?”

“I had no idea what the note meant!  It was all this English jibberish about suns and roses – a fight was my best guess.”

“That note was _Shakespeare!_  Shakespeare is _universal!”_

“Shakespeare?  Who the fuck is that?”

Kuroo is explaining the intricacies of Shakespeare’s genius when the two boys arrive back at the volleyball team’s locker room, where Kai is, in fact, waiting with an icepack.  He smiles at the sight of their approaching silhouettes against the red-gold sunset, and does not comment on the way that Kuroo’s hand is held tightly in Morisuke’s.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor) / [tumblr](http://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/)


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